


love's roundabout.

by 200percent_inlove



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Break Up, Canon Related, Drama & Romance, F/M, First Love, Heartbreak, Love, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-24 13:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/200percent_inlove/pseuds/200percent_inlove
Summary: Nearly three-hundred days. Four different arts. Two carefully-crafted smiles to hide their heartbreak. And one accidental confession that she, too, shares.Or, how Makoto and Ren cope with a break-up after seven years. Expectantly, neither of them do it too well.Post-Persona AU.





	love's roundabout.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write angst often, just because I REALLY want my OTPs to be happy. But alas, y'know, sometimes. A girl has to do what she's gotta do. LOL. ;_; I'M SORRY, SHUMAKO <3 I PROMISE I'LL DO BETTER NEXT TIME.
> 
> So, as we all know, Makoto has never had much experience with relationships before meeting Ren. And while I do HC them as the type to date for long-term (AKA, marriage) and can work out their troubles logically, I do foresee a situation where Makoto's devotion to her studies and her job may result in her putting Ren on the backburner accidentally, becoming the catalyst behind their temporary break-up. 
> 
> Break-ups are difficult, and it's no different for them as this puts ShuMako into a new, foreign position of singlehood. I mean, they were each others' firsts. How do you EVER get through a first love? Case in point: They don't. They try to learn to live a life without one another; they make use of different means to help them cope and put the past behind them. And it doesn't go so well (Obviously). 
> 
> Angst is honestly not my forte, but nonetheless, I hope that this delivers and that you enjoy :D!
> 
> Song Inspirations:
> 
> Epik High - Can You Hear My Heart?  
HEIZE - We Don't Talk Together  
Chancellor ft. Tae-Yeon - Angel

What begins at seventeen and sixteen –

Learning things beyond the scope of paperback novels and tome-like textbooks; the sharing of many firsts; discovering infamous weak spots, hidden within the curved crevice of his neck; the critical difference between the best flowers versus _her_ favourite flowers (Lavender, baby’s-breath paired with irises); handmade _bento_ boxes with crispy vegetables; innumerable Valentine’s Day trinkets and Christmas presents; terms of endearment that she slowly, but surely grows to love. 

“Let’s break-up.”

– Eventually comes to a cordial, polite end at the ages of twenty-four and twenty-three seven years later, with a conversation full of trademark phrases often linked to break-ups: The yearning for other things in life; a sense of divergence in paths, leaving behind an unfixable, deep crevice; of values that no longer coalesced.

“It’s not your fault.”

Wrong. It is. In these instances of mutual separations, Ren remains the gentleman that he’s always been, avoiding the blame game. But she knows. Makoto Niijima sensed it barreling straight towards her like an accelerating train. She lost the opportunity to fix it when she had the chance.

Time, she realizes guiltily, waits for nobody. And while he can provide as much reassurance as he can, she _knows_. It’s her fault.

And here they are now, at the endpoint, with their throats tightly clenched and their gazes averted. There’s nothing else that she can say to rectify the situation once he’s made up his mind. She desperately wishes for her bangs to grow past her eyes to hide the stabbing pang of hurt swirling deep within her irises.

All she offers in return is a subdued, “Okay.”

* * *

Ren Amamiya is a damn piece of shit. It’s in poor taste; he shouldn’t have selected this place to hold such a somber talk here. He shouldn’t have brought her here _at all_: At the quaint café that she affectionately calls her second kitchen, hiding on a deserted side street that they’ve frequented in the past for their weekend brunch dates. It’s a place that once evoked pleasant memories of smoked salmon bagels and stealthy pecks on the cheek.

And now? All she’ll be reminded of now is today. 

Today, and how the Sunday shift barista – a spunky university student with a penchant for hair dye and bleach – had shifted her attention elsewhere, refiling their mugs only once with a tight-lipped smile and serviceable “Enjoy”. It’s a huge contrast to the outgoing, spirited personality that they’ve grown accustomed to. On regular days, she refers to them by name, lingering about their table to make small talk, playfully chiding the dark-haired man about his peculiarity for ordering the same sandwich and side.

(_“Really, Amamiya-san? At least Niijima-san tries new dishes!”_)

Today, and how she does not bother to say much, tending to the other patrons jovially. Smelling the smoke before seeing the fire. 

Ren wonders what gave it away. Was it their demeanor as they stepped in, the gap between their bodies depressingly evident? The absence of French toast and crispy waffles? Or, just the fact that his obsidian-tinted eyes fail to focus on anything else other than the shades of caramel and beige sitting in his mug because he just can’t bear to look her in the eye? Perhaps it’s his body language that clues her in; the way he sits with his back slack against the leathery cushion when he should’ve been leaning halfway over the table, listening intently to Makoto’s murmurs.

His mouth is left bitterly dry when his lips part. “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her slim figure shift from left to right, this way and that, like a metronome. She’s racking her brain for something to say, but when her words (“No. _I’m_ sorry”) let slip, he can’t help but let a flinch of distress flash across his face.

“Makoto.” A heavy sigh exhales from his lungs. She wasn’t listening, was she? What did he say earlier, about how he refuses to let her shift the burden onto herself? “It’s _nobody’s_ fault. The last thing I would want is animosity between us. You know very well that I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Her eyes, her nose, her lips – they scrunch together into an indecipherable expression. Ren needs to be more wary of the way he uses his words.

“That is,” he clarifies swiftly. “Would it be possible for us to remain friends?”

“Will _we_ be okay?” 

_Will_ they? It’s a mind-boggling question. An excellent question. Now might be too soon, but that doesn’t exclude the possibility of a ‘someday’. Someday down the line, give or take a few months.

So, cautiously, he says with a slight nod, “I don’t see any reason to believe that we wouldn’t be.”

“Then, friends it is. I mean, I wouldn’t want to live – “ She bites her tongue, and for a brief second, Ren questions, what _did_ she want to say? “Lose someone as great of a friend as you are.”

Their silence is pierced at last when the waitress saunters towards their booth, interrupting with a question of, “Will it be together or separate?” There’s an uplifting lilt disguised in her inquiry that strikes Ren as somewhat odd. It’s like she was holding onto that tiny trace of hope that she was worrying her head over nothing.

Makoto, on the other hand, is completely caught off-guard. It’s clear to see why. She's not used to answering things like this when they were together. It was either him or her paying for their meals – never, _ever_ separate. He watches her fingers fumble for her wallet clumsily in her bag, but Ren manages to slip it out of his pocket first. He doesn’t need that painful imagery ingrained in his mind.

“Together.”

“No,” she disagrees curtly, withdrawing the tiny navy-blue square. “Separate.”

And right on cue, the sky outside – blanketing the blaring streets of _Shinjuku_ in a morbid shade of dark-grey – suddenly rumbles with a crashing, thunderous roar as droplets of rain pelt downward, pounding against the ground and the windows. 

* * *

There’s not much space underneath the faded canopy to shield them when they leave. So, Ren hovers underneath it, hands tucked deep within his pockets as a steady stream of water dribbles onto his shoulder. Makoto is two small steps forward, her fingers curling tight against the handle of her umbrella. And there’s a cab driver growing impatient, drumming his thick, chubby digits against the steering wheel as Makoto gestures exasperatedly towards the open door for the tenth time. Any second longer and she swears that he’ll blast his honk at them for wasting his precious time.

“Go on, Ren. Take it. I can always wait for the next one.”

Unconsciously, she tilts the umbrella over to the side slightly – just enough to cover the fabric exposed to the drizzle. She's reprimanded him about wearing that windbreaker in the past; she’ll need to hang it out to dry on a warmer day –

Oh, wait. No. That’s not her responsibility anymore. She draws it back. 

“No, no. You go first. I insist.”

“You have an appointment with Dr. Takemi today for the digestive issues you’ve been having,” she says authoritatively underneath the intense splatter. “And traffic is terrible at this time, too. Ren, please. Don’t make me say it twice.”

And then, quietly: “I’ll be fine.”

Whether it’s a reference to their earlier conversation, or towards something as straightforward as whom would take the cab, he’s not too certain. Makoto was never much of an open book. Never the type to wear her heart on her sleeve unless absolutely necessary; she had a prestigious reputation as the renowned, reputable and brilliant Prosecutor Niijima’s younger sister to uphold, after all.

The domineering sharpness puts an end to the conversation, and at last, he accepts wordlessly. Ducking his head from under his alternative shelter, he sloshes through the puddles with his arms outstretched over the mangled mess of his hair, clambering aboard and closing the door behind him.

Ren doesn’t – or more precisely, refuses to – look back when the convertible pulls away from the curb. The last thing he catches sight of as the driver accelerates and speeds towards the intersection is the patterned umbrella that he’s walked under many times before, sauntering towards the opposite direction. She’s taking the subway? In _this_ weather?

But then, Ren regretfully pulls his eyes away. He shouldn’t be looking. It’s not his right to dictate what mode of transportation she chooses anymore.

Likewise, Makoto should be prohibited from peeking. Pausing mid-step, she whirls around, managing to catch a glimpse of the car hurrying forward, and successfully beating the yellow light just before it changes neon-red.

She shouldn’t have said that, she scolds herself harshly. It’s not her right to grow concerned over his scheduled appointments anymore.

His taxi remains stagnant in the heavy flow of congested traffic; she’s squeezed up against the glass aboard the _Yamanote_ Line. And they both exhale heavy-hearted sighs.

Through the rhythmic thrumming of the engine, thoughts of ‘_Is it possible to already miss someone so terribly?_’ swims through her mind ceaselessly.

Through the blaring horns and frivolous turn signals that blink in nauseating flashes of light before his eyes, perplexing questions of _‘I did this, and yet, why do I feel as if I just lost a piece of myself?’ _repeats itself in a dazing trance, like a malfunctioning cassette tape, with no way to drone out the noise.

* * *

The thing is, seven years is more than enough time to figure out one’s cuisine preferences. And being a commissioner-in-training with a keen, observant eye, Makoto had it all marked down in her bullet journal. Ren enjoys the occasional Korean and Italian pasta here and there. In particular, a restaurant in _Shin-Okubo_ and _Ginza_, respectively, for their stone-bowl _bibimbap_ and duck foie gras _pappardelle_. Sushi _omakase_, however, remains his top pick, especially when it came to celebrating special occasions. And unlike Ann, he isn’t too fond of desserts, but his knees will always buckle in weakness at a cup of coffee.

It didn’t matter what type of bean, or what milk, cream or sugar was poured in. He appreciated all varieties, although he seemed to carry a preference for macchiatos and (Dare she believe it) pumpkin spiced lattes. Ren had officiated himself as a designated caffeine addict, and Makoto daringly poked fun at his obsession a year back.

“Mm, I think an exclusive relationship with coffee suits you, Ren.” It was on a lazy Saturday afternoon when she tosses this comment at him, a little absentmindedly, her fingers busily dog-earring pages from her secondhand textbook. “You don’t need me.”

“Sounds to me like somebody’s a little jealous.” She doesn’t fight off his accusation with a point-by-point rebuttal, because he’s pacified her complaints with his lips as he normally does to escape trouble, leaving her a melted, steamy mess in his embrace. “And I’ll always need you, what are you talking about?” Naughty hands eventually peeled her clothes off, and she made light work on his sweater, tossed and left messily astray on the floor soon after.

She believed in him wholeheartedly back then. But looking back now, it’s a rather paradoxical situation, to say the least; funny how things tend to play out in the end.

In her notebook, there were sixty-six different coffeehouses that he’s dissected to the very core, ranking them from F to S with detailed notations to follow.

(_“Really, Ren? God-tier coffee? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this a template on ranking video game characters?” _

_“_ _Don’t argue with me, Makoto. I know full well that you use this to rank your favourite Yakuza characters.”_

_"_ _T-that’s - preposterous!” _

_“I_'_m just a full-time coffee connoisseur. Just as much as you are a Yakuza fanatic, Queen.”)_

Not surprisingly, recognizable franchises fell into the lowest tier, whilst he pledged his full-blown, undying support towards independent coffee shops.

And for her, that makes sixty-six different places that she’ll need to evade for the time being.

* * *

The art of evasion is a subject that is often brought up in the pages of her favourite _shonen manga_. It’s drawn skillfully as blooming ninjas-in-training master the technique with complex hand seals for their examinations. In the Metaverse, Makoto bore witness to it as the specialization of the artsy _kitsune_ of the Phantom Thieves. He had honed it beautifully with his sharp-tipped _katana_ and the navy-and-white outfit that screamed valiance and roguery.

Now, it is something Makoto employs on the daily to protect her heart.

But that’s another thing. Try as she might portray that image of a self-assured, confident woman, Makoto Niijima is _not_ a perfect being.

She, too, makes mistakes. She, too, tortures herself daily by swallowing her damaged pride to strut through campus hallways as if she weren’t nursing heartbreak. She, too, becomes blinded and makes poor decisions. Like today, for example.

It’s a crisp, chilly February morning when she’s dashing around _Ikebukuro_ in a pair of heels a size too small with the leather counter rubbing up against her shin uncomfortably and a trench coat unsuited for Winter. She’s lugging a heavy tote on one arm and a poster tube wound around the other, taking care to swerve through the flurry of black suit jackets and stockings with caution.

And she’s stressed. She’s so damn stressed and exhausted that there’s only one acceptable therapeutic agent that could bring her back on track.

“Oh, Makoto! Long-time no see!“

Makoto had her doubts when Ren brought her here. The prices seemed overly extravagant in comparison to other competitors sprinkled around the city, but she let it slide once her tongue tasted the rich nuttiness in her hot chocolate. And from there on, she just fell deeper in love. From the unique interior design – minimalistic with the slightest hint of modesty and homeliness – to the sociable barista who wore her jet-black hair in a high ponytail: It just goes to show that first impressions can be misleading.

Honestly, she’s missed this place. Or, it’s more accurate to say that she’s missed her coffee runs here _with_ Ren. And while a part of her tells her to hightail it out of there without buying anything, she eventually concludes that perhaps taking a fifteen-minute break wouldn’t hurt. What are the odds, anyway? One to one thousand? _Two_ thousand?

Her shoes clack against the oakwood flooring, and she immediately shrugs off her trench coat, sending a small smile at the jolly, pigtailed woman. “And to you. How are you, Sakura-_san_?”

“Oh, please. No need for any of that formality pish-posh. Yui will do just fine.” With one eye creased halfway, she snaps her fingers together, exclaiming, “London Fog, right?”

“Oh, um, yes, that’s right. I’m quite surprised that you remembered.”

“Not many girls walk in here with a fake braid and order drinks besides coffee, y’know,“ she says with a mischievous wink, igniting a pinkish blush on the younger woman’s cheeks. Busying herself in front of the milk steamer, she asks casually, “So, how have you been? It feels as if it’s been forever since I last saw you!”

Makoto isn’t like Ren; she’s not built for bumbling small talk, but somehow, their conversation relaxes her nerves and puts her at ease. Maybe that’s all she needs: A chance to face her fears head-on. Avoidance can only do so much before she burns out.

(Now that she’s ruminating over it, she probably has. She just refuses to believe that he still has that great of an influence on her.)

“More or less at least a few months, I would think.”

“No offense, Makoto, but you look dang tired. Great and pretty as always!” She reassures, studying the younger woman’s dark circles with concern as she slides the steaming teacup forward. “But tired.”

_Tired doesn’t even cover half of it_, she thinks. “None taken, but you’re right, Yui-_san_. I am. It’s been exhausting trying to finish up my thesis before graduation.”

“Well, hey, look on the bright side! At least you’ve got your good-lookin' fiancé to give you late-night massages, eh?”

And whatever progress she’s made thus far since January (Slow as it may be) shatters the moment the words – full of childlike innocence and naivety – leave her gloss-coated lips.

Makoto’s eyelids are aflutter as she tries to procure a proper response, but all she can muster is dull stupid gibberish. “My...fiancé?”

“Oh, Makoto, don’t be foolish.” Yui beams, her smile nauseatingly saccharine. “You know, that cute piece of eye-candy that you latch your arms around? You two are so dang cute, with him teasin’ you every single time you get foam on your top lip.” She tosses a glance this way and that, pondering loudly, “So, where’s he? Are you guys meeting up here?”

“Oh. You mean – “ Ren. It’s _glaringly obvious _that it’s Ren. Who else could be mistaken as her quote-unquote fiancé? She digests this piece of news almost fearfully, reminding her that she – no, _they_ were once so in love. Anybody with a pair of eyes could tell that they were so completely over the moon and smitten.

Not anymore, though. And somehow, Makoto can’t bring herself to tell the starry-eyed barista what had occurred. But she’s just one stranger amongst the millions walking the streets of _Tokyo_ – why does one person’s opinion matter so much? It’s almost like she didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Um, no, unfortunately. Not today, I don’t think – he's been...” The short-haired woman shifts, visibly discomforted, on her stool. Would she be able to detect any sudden anomalies in her behaviour? “Quite busy.”

“Oh, well, that’s a shame.” And with the same cheesy grin, she bellows, “Tell him to come by next time too, alright?”

Makoto exhales, gloating internally at her achievement. At least she’s a better actress than Ann, right? Still, the mere mention of Ren quashes whatever thirst she had. Tapping the side of her half-drunken cup, she says, “You know what? I’ll actually have to take the rest of this to go.” 

“You got it!” The barista expertly pours the remainder into a disposable cup, handing it to Makoto. “Are you _sure_ you don’t need some help with all of your stuff? You look like you’re on the run from the mafia or something.”

There was always something in her unorthodox metaphors that amused Makoto. Chuckling bleakly, she reassures, “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright. Well, see you next time, hopefully?”

“Yes. See you.”

Gathering her things, Makoto bows her head into a respectful farewell, scurrying out the door as fast as her aching feet would allow with a frown displacing the smile.

_No, there won’t be a 'next time'._

* * *

Makoto can’t help herself, though.

_To: Ren Amamiya_  
_Something amusing happened today. You know that coffeehouse we used to go after our workouts? The one that served the spinach-brie croissants? The waitress recognized me. Apparently, she always mistook me as your fiancé. Just something that made me laugh a little today. I hope you’ve been well._

* * *

  
Thirty minutes later, right on the dot with the hour hand pointing at three and the minute hand at twelve, a pair of leather boots steps into the warm ambiance where a certain brunette had lingered not too long ago.

“Oh, well, look who decided to drop by!” The barista greets the tousle-haired man with a cheerful grin and abandons her sweeping altogether. “Bird’s nest hair as always, huh?”

“You know it.” Ren returns her chirpy demeanor with a crooked smile of his own, peering at the chalkboard menu with squinted eyes. “Although Yui-_san_, is that the appropriate way to greet your regulars? I must say, customer service has deteriorated significantly since my last visit.”

“Tch, I say whatever I want,” she snaps. “Hey, I even said it to Makoto-_chan_ when she dropped by! I’m not playing favourites, alright?”

The mentioning of _her_ name throws Ren a curveball, his elbow slipping off the countertop clumsily. He could take whatever backhanded compliments or insults that she sent flying with the sharp tongue of hers, but –

Hearing those three syllables. God, even someone like _him_ can’t prepare for unforeseen attacks like _that_.

Ren recovers quickly with a brief nod and an incoherent mumble, and while that should’ve been the end of the conversation, he can’t help but let his curiosity spill out. “Yui-_san_, when was Makoto here?”

“Half an hour ago, actually,” she explains with her back turned. “Poor girl looked like an absolute wreck.”

“Wreck?” Ren repeats. A wreck, but in what way? Losing weight from loss of appetite? Damnit, was she just embellishing the tale when she was only suffering from the flu and he’s just worrying the hell out of nothing?

“Lugging all of this stuff around! I think she had a poster and a grocery bag sorta thing with her? Absolutely dreadful. I ought to tell her that she should invest in a proper bag – the one she has looks like it’ll snap if she puts anything heavy in it.” He knows that tote. He gifted it to her on a whim when she complained briefly about a lack of a proper lunch bag. She’s still using it, huh?

“And anyway,” she chides, knocking him back into reality by slamming her palms roughly against the wood. “You’re the fiancé! You should help her sometimes, too!”

Thunderstruck, his eyes widen. Although, is that truly a shocking revelation to _anyone _that he would be labeled as such? It was in plain sight: In their mannerisms; their interactions; their secretive, fond smiles reserved only for one another. And had they survived; well, Ren would’ve fulfilled that designation eventually. Maybe not immediately; perhaps a year or two later, with their careers more established, their futures more certain.

It’s such a far-fetched dream now, but at the very least, Makoto’s no longer restrained from any secondary obligations while pursuing her goals now. 

Clearing his throat, he tries to clarify, “Ah, well, actually – “

“Keep her happy, alright?” Yui scolds with her hands on her hips. “She seemed a little down in the dumps today, or maybe she just has tons of shit that she needs to finish? Either way, she left so abruptly that I completely forgot to tell her that we had her favourite spinach-brie croissants in the oven and she could’ve picked one up...ah! Wait! I got it! Bring some back for her! I’ll even sneak in two for free.” 

Ren’s mouth is agape as he watches the older woman hustle about on her feet, affixing a large white box and filling it with crispy-brown pastries. The words that he originally planned to say (_‘No, we’ve broken up, actually’_) returns to his throat in a lump.

In place, he croaks, “Okay. I’ll do just that.”

And there he goes, walking out of the shop and into the streets with a neatly-tied pastry box in one hand, and a falsified promise that he’ll drop by more often – with Makoto in tow.

What a joke.

It’s over; done with; ended. And the worst part of it all is that it’s not like it were some horrifying skeleton in the closet that he wanted to keep hush-hush. It’s plain knowledge that couples break-up. It happens all the time. No big deal; nothing new.

So why can’t he tell the barista those same words that he told _Makoto_ oh-so-easily that day?

Ren returns to his university study group after some aimless wandering, apologizing profusely to the number of professionally-dressed office workers he collides into along the way. His classmates coo their gratitude and thanks, and a particularly peppy freshman offers him one, piping-hot with the aroma wafting enticingly under his nose.

He almost says that he would be glad to have one.

Key word being ‘_almost_’.

“No. I’m actually not that hungry. I ate something earlier.”

* * *

She presses her phone against her forehead, heaving out a sigh. She’s standing against the side of the wall in the emergency exit stairwell, hands shaking, her pulse thunderously erratic.

What a foolish almost-mistake to commit.

She never taps send, watching the text disappear before her eyes, leaving behind nothing but the blinking cursor. A momentary lapse in judgment; a brief second of weakness.

Makoto can do better. No croissants? No frothy earl grey tea?

Fine. She’ll live. 

* * *

The art of forgetting proves to be much more difficult than Ren had anticipated. Because with him being his damned self and blessed with – or cursed, depending on how one looked at it – genes that provided him with the memory of an elephant, _everything_ and _everywhere_ always connects him back to the petite brunette with crimson-red eyes that plagued his dreams every few nights.

It starts with the croissants, but progressively worsens as time goes on.

Something as simple as egg salad sandwiches from convenience stores takes him back to a time where she and he prepared snacks for their annual _hanami_ in _Yoyogi_ Park. There’s a candid shot that he had captured, saved within his folders on his desktop somewhere, of her svelte physique standing amongst the trees and the light-pink tinted petals fluttering amongst her in a dream-like haze. He refuses to delete it; the scenery was so ethereally beautiful that day.

<strike>(No. _She_ was. _She_ was so radiant that day.)</strike>

Tuna _onigiri_ makes him recall their first _shinkansen_ trip back to his hometown. Of how she, in a sheer state of frenzied panic, chased after her poorly-secured luggage wheeling away from the storage compartment and him, cackling delightfully in return – only to earn himself a well-deserved smack on the shoulder soon after.

Good God. He’s a damn train wreck.

At first, he tries to point the blame on his subconscious: An entity that he theoretically had no control over. It’s not _his_ fault that his brain refuses to block out those thoughts from tormenting his executive awareness.

But then, Futaba and Morgana both bluntly point out over plates of curry that yes, indeed, he _did_.

“Nobody else knows more about cognition than I do,” the cat snarked haughtily, narrowly escaping a furious swat from the younger man.

So then, he reasons (Angrily so) that it’s_ probably_ the seven years. He doesn’t proclaim himself as an expert in things as emotionally complex as this, but he’s no fool. It’s virtually impossible to erase their past recollections – no matter how small or large – in just a few months’ time.

And accepting Ryuji Sakamoto's proposal in seeking out a gift for Makoto’s twenty-fifth birthday in early April – a quarter-life milestone that he would’ve shared with her – doesn’t do much to help.

“Her birthday is on the twenty-second, amirite?”

Rather, Ryuji’s redundant questions just aggravate the situation – and namely, _him_ – even more.

Browsing through the quiet bookshelves extending high into the ceilings, Ren feigns interest with a novels’ synopsis. But really, all he’s trying to do is mask his irrationally rising level of anger. Why had he thoughtlessly agreed to this without giving it a second thought? Why is he making something as simple as gift-giving into such a dramatic spectacle with a temper tantrum? And why in God’s hell is so _infuriated_? “Ryuji, you’ve known her – “

“Makoto,” the blonde interjects. “She got a name, dude. It’s Makoto.”

“You’ve known.” His voice catches, and Ryuji glances at him for an answer. Swallowing thickly, Ren tries to finish his sentence but it emerges raspy and weak. His companions’ eyebrow is quipped high on his face, but his expression divulges nothing else that warrants a question in return. “Makoto for as long as I have. How do you _not_ remember?”

“Well, I’m gettin' old. And damn, Ren. Chill the fuck out, won’t ya? Did someone punch you in the nose today or some shit? The hell is wrong with – ?”

“Twenty-third.”

Ryuji loses his sudden train of thought, blubbering, “W-wait, _w-what_?”

“April twenty-third,” Ren repeats stiffly, shoving the paperback into the slot with unmistakable gruffness. “Her birthday. It’s on a Saturday this year.”

“Why are you talkin’ like you ain’t going to her party, dude?”

“God. Dude, that’s because I’m _not_.” Noting Ryuji’s piercing stare, Ren adds hastily, “I have – plans.”

“Plans, huh?” The blonde athlete muses quietly, his thumb tucked under his chin in contemplation. It’s one Ren knows well. It’s the look of someone in disbelief; a look of someone displeased. “Some promise ya made about stayin’ friends, not even goin’ to her birthday.” 

“Anyway, I digress.” Changing the subject, Ren grabs ahold of Ryuji’s arm, tugging him towards a wide array of writing utensils. “If you and Ann are planning a gift, a fail-safe present is stationary.” Throwing two packages of ballpoint pens into the steel shopping basket, he explains, “She can’t write anything without these, and she’s down to her last two pens. Just warn her to not let it explode all over her hands.”

One minute, they’re waiting in line at the check-out, Ren’s foot tapping impatiently against the floorboards. The next, Ren already passed his credit card to the cashier for processing while Ryuji was _just_ beginning to draw out his scruffy-looking wallet for cash.

“Uh, dude, that was _our_ gift.”

“There are some other things that Makoto needs. C’mon.” 

Two floors up in a home furnishing store with intricate, fragile china littering the shelving (Ryuji pressing his limbs tight against his sides to prevent any unfortunate mishaps), Ren picks up a glazed ceramic pot, painted in vibrant hues of aqua and periwinkle to mimic the twilight sky. “Has she told you about Phyllis?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ryuji announces, brazenly noisy. “Let’s backtrack. Who the _fuck_ is Phy – the hell was it again?! _Feel_-us?”

“Phyllis. Our – “ Fuck. How much longer before it sticks in his mind that there’s no more _‘our’_ or _‘we’_? “_Her_ new aloe plant. She’s been meaning to transplant it into a new reservoir but hasn’t found the time to get a new home for it. Get this one.”

“And who, pray tell, decided on such a whack-ass name like that?” The blonde demands, shaking his head. “Sounds like a Sherlock Holmes sidekick! Was it you? It’s _gotta_ be you! Who else reads those lame shitty books?!”

“Well, we – “ Damnit. Again. Is it never going to cease? “She does. I do, too.”

“Oh, God. Ren, ya seriously drive me up the wall sometimes.”

Whether it’s intentional or a completely unconscious act, Ryuji isn’t too sure. Knowing Ren, he’s the type to think through his steps before proceeding. But soon after, he catches a glimpse of the black plastic tapped against the card reader hastily, and he and Ren are dashing again through the shopping center for their next stop. This time, it’s a motorcycle parts store. The air is thick and heavy with rubber and plastic, leading Ryuji to rudely cover his nose, whining endlessly, “Duuuude, I swear to God, I’m gonna get a headache!”

Thankfully, they didn’t stay for too long. As it turns out, Ren had customized a helmet for her awhile back prior to their break-up: A pretty piece of polycarbonate, decorated in swirls of dark-blue and light-grey (Hey, wasn’t that the colour scheme for Makoto’s Metaverse outfit?).

“Still, it looks like any dang helmet. So, what’s special about this one?” Ryuji asks curiously.

“The lenses on the one she has now are cracking and lets in an uncomfortable amount of glare from the sun. The extra UV coating should help. Plus, you see this interior lining? The old one was extremely constricting; this should help her breath a little easier while she’s out on her rides.”

Most of it is just idle babble that didn’t make much sense in the blonde’s simple mind. But as they exit the store, their hands weighed down with bags and scrolls of limited edition Buchimaru-patterned wrapping paper tucked underneath their arms, Ryuji inevitably realizes two things.

The first being: “Dude. You _paid_ for all of her gifts.”

Without breaking stride, Ren explains with slight apprehension, “I just – well, I-I already paid for half of the helmet during the consultation. That makes sense.”

“And Feel-us' pot?”

“_Phyllis_.”

“Whatever,” Ryuji dismisses. “And the pens, too, dude.”

Ren says nothing else after that. Not like he needed excessive commentary – 

But the second they settle at an all-you-can-eat _sushi_ restaurant, Ryuji blurts out, “Ren. I’m just gonna cut to the chase, alright? Do you miss her?”

“Ryuji,” Ren says, his jaw clenched and his fingers wound a bit too tight around his chopsticks. Any harder, and it would’ve snapped in his grip. “I _don’t_ want to talk about this.”

In short, it just means that he’s trying to avoid the problem. Ryuji isn’t having it. Not at all.

“Bro.” The blonde sends him a steely, hardened glare that silences whatever excuse Ren has planned. Clasping a hand on his companion’s shoulder, he takes a bite of _hamachi_ before draining his cup of ice-cold _sake._ “Just that in itself is enough. You ain’t denyin’ it. Fool everybody all you want, but I know you. You ain’t foolin’ me.”

Closing his eyelids shut, Ren sighs in defeat. “And what of it?” What of it, if he misses her? What does it matter? They live separate lives now: Hers, with her notepads and laptop and papers and police academy waiting; his, with his own set of responsibilities and his graduation just a year away.

“You're right. It ain’t gonna do much, but at least you’ll be honest with yourself.” Pausing, Ryuji spares another glance in his direction. “I’m not tellin’ ya what to do. This is between you and her, but just the fact that you’re actin’ so high and mighty like this break-up ain‘t botherin‘ ya when your actions say somethin’ else.” He shrugs. “It just sets off warnin’ bells, ya know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ren, it doesn’t suit ya to pretend to _not_ care about her when you virtually remember every single thing that she needs still, that’s all. I know you guys agreed to be friends but, are you_ sure_ you made the right decision? You look like you’re hurtin’ all the time now.”

“...I’m no Johnny Depp, huh?” Ren scoffs, dejected.

“A shitty one,” the blonde chuckles, a little empty. “Absolutely shitty.”

* * *

A revision is in order: Let’s call it the art of _trying_ to forget. Three months, and it’s still damn near impossible to forget. Any attempts, adamant as Ren feels that he will be successful, is futile.

And Ryuji – whilst it only happens once in a blue moon – is correct.

Yes, it’s difficult. _Yes_, he still cares about her. And _no_, he doesn’t want to shatter whatever semblance of a pleasant friendship because they had come to a unanimous decision on that. But having said that, he knows that he can’t keep this up much longer.

Drastic measures may be necessary.

And while it pains his heart to do so, it’s so inappropriate to behave this way: Blurring the lines between a cordial friendship and romantic attachment whenever she crosses his mind.

Ren twists his position a few degrees to the right. And then, an inch or two towards the left. The glass panel doesn’t feel right. God. He misses the shoulder that he used to huddle against during long train rides.

No. That's not right. 

He misses her. 

* * *

Being frank, Makoto isn’t accustomed to large, clamorous celebrations for her birthday. Call it her introverted personality coming into play, the fact that she was less than thrilled with having to apologize to their disgruntled waiter on behalf of a wasted RyuAnn two-hit combination (As Futaba often liked to call them) or (More likely than not) the fact that she’s celebrated the past seven under more intimate circumstances, with vanilla-scented candles and tiramisu to share. 

Still, there’s no denying that she appreciates their heartfelt gesture when she steps into the restaurant Haru had specially reserved for her special day – one of her favourites that served delectable skewers and tasty high balls. Makoto’s eyes grow teary-eyed at the sight of her friends that had gathered for her twenty-fifth: Ann and Ryuji with wide grins with a meowing Morgana cradled in the woman’s arms; Yusuke, growing snappy at a hand-painted banner that refused to stay in place; Futaba leaping towards her to sprinkle confetti over her hair and Haru, placing a plastic tiara atop of her head.

“Happy birthday to you, Makoto!” The choir of voices sings shrilly.

“Oh, you all,” she says with a choked laugh, sniffling as Haru brushes pieces of red and blue off her shoulders. Securing the play jewelry with one hand, she adds, “Really, I didn’t expect this.”

“Preposterous,” Yusuke declares, pulling out a nearby chair for her to sit. “A dear friend of ours deserves nothing but the best, especially when reaching quarter-life.”

“What in the **_crap_** is that, Inari?!” Futaba shrieks. “Some birthday wish that your creative brain could come up with!”

“And how’s it feelin, bein’ the oldest of the bunch now, Queen?” Ryuji adds with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, Ryuji,” Ann chides, flicking two fingers at the taller man’s forehead. “That’s a big no-no. You do not say that to a girl!”

Things that would’ve once gotten under Makoto’s skin and left her outraged surprisingly makes her burst out into genuine laughter instead. “Queens must learn to not get riled up over such silly remarks.”

And as Queen, she will also not let her spirit dampen on her birthday just because of his absence. Even if a tiny part of her wished that he had at least sent a greeting, but then again if this is just one amongst the many consequences that arise from a break-up and that this quote-unquote ‘ignorance’ will benefit her in the long run in helping her move on, she’ll take it.

Through grilled beef, ribs and chicken skewers, Ryuji lets out a loud, drunken tantrum of wanting to grab _karaoke_ right after (Ann, tugging on his earlobe in response). Yusuke interrupts their brief fight with talks of his current art projects, and sources of inspiration (Hmm, why did so many of them revolve around an orange-haired, spectacles-wearing girl?). And finally, with their stomachs bursting and the marbled chocolate cake served in tiny slices, Haru piles gift after gift in front of Makoto.

She tears through the wrapping paper with care – it's _Buchimaru_, after all – but soon after, her poised expression morphs into one of complete marvel and awe. It’s as if they had all developed telekinesis and read her mind.

...And that was precisely the issue that she found somewhat strange. She didn’t tell a single soul that she was in dire need of a new reservoir for Phyllis. In fact, _no one_ within their group was informed of her new succulent in the first place.

She comments airily, “Oh, this pottery is beautiful!”

Was it just her? Or did Ann and Haru exchange a certain look with one another?

Makoto tries to shake it off when she removes the motorcycle helmet from the packaging. “This must’ve cost a fortune,” she says, feeling a sudden surge of guilt. Once again, something still doesn’t feel quite right here. She never brought up the topic of needing new gear, did she? Unless her memory’s playing tricks on her –

All of a sudden, Ryuji bangs his glass against the countertop, his face puffy and scarlet from the alcohol. “I tell ya, Makoto,” he announces unabashedly, pointing a finger this way and that haphazardly. “That damn asshole – I just can’t get through t’him. Seriously!”

“Ryuji.” Ann immediately gets to her feet, attempting to shove the stumbling blonde back into his seat. “Shut up!” 

“Oy, oy. Stop that gibberin’, Ann! Look, Makoto,” Ryuji exclaims pointedly. “Ren bought _all_ these damn gifts for ya. Kept sayin’ shit like y’need _this_ for your new cactus, and then that you have some fetish for MUJI pens and then – “

Makoto’s head suddenly snaps to attention at the mention of Ren’s name, shell-shocked. “...W-wait, _what_? What do you mean?”

“Ryuji, you are **_SO_** piss drunk!” Morgana hisses in an outrage. “Snap **_OUT_** of it!”

“Shuddit, cat. As I said, he – bought – all – these. All of it, Makoto! Can ya believe?!“

“Okay, **_THAT’S_** it,” Ann declares, grabbing ahold of Ryuji’s arm. With a powerful yank, she drags him along, muttering, “We’re getting some air, Ryuji, and that’s final!”

“**_I AIN’T FINISHED!_**”

The remaining quartet watches as the pair – plus the feline – saunter out of the restaurant noisily with loud protests escaping the boisterous man’s loud-mouth. Futaba palms her face, sighing. “What a bumbling idiot.”

Yusuke wraps an arm around the shorter girls’ shoulders, nodding as Ann’s furious scream pierces through the dining room. “I concur.”

All the while, Makoto remains silently stunned – not because of the actual gift giver's identity, no, but because this implied a crucial fact. He wasn’t any closer to getting over her, either.

Her hands fall limp against the wrapping paper, and her bottom teeth gnaw against her lip. Whilst many people have insisted that time heals all wounds, she actually finds the contrary to be true instead.

Things, in fact, do not get easier with time.

* * *

April twenty-third.

(Makoto’s twenty-fifth birthday.)

Saturday – 

(Makoto’s first birthday that he won’t be celebrating with her.)

Has already come and gone, just like that. A sunny, cloud-free day left wasted to the fingertips of time and chores that didn’t need tending to immediately, but he needs the distraction. Otherwise, he’ll never stop touching his phone. 

At least the heavens are celebrating the brunette’s special day in his place. The beaming sunlight comforts him slightly, but not by much.

During the day, Ren took off on his bicycle to get the tires tested; he treated himself to a hearty lunch at Leblanc, with Futaba stopping by and questioning (Demanding was more appropriate, honestly) whether he had sent Makoto a birthday wish yet, only to be rescued by Boss; he went for a jog, growing breathless after seven kilometres; he caught up on some e-mails and research papers with Criminal Minds episodes blasting as background noise –

And it’s taken him to eleven o’clock in the evening. There’s one hour remaining.

But he can’t resist the temptation. Drawing out his phone that he’s kept hidden away in his desk drawer, he swipes through the numerous notifications flooding the touch screen. Fifteen text messages from classmates that didn’t matter too much; three missed calls with two throwing in an automatic voice mail that he deleted and –

_Futaba Sakura_  
_8:22 P.M._  
_The gang’s all here! Besides you, jerk face._

Indeed, there they were, smiling into the front-facing camera delightfully. His eyes are immediately drawn to the girl, sitting in her rightful spot at the head of the table. That piece of play jewelry – it was most likely Haru’s doing, wasn’t it? It suits her to a tee. That wasn’t the only change to her appearance though. It’s the sincere grin on her face – one that displayed all her teeth and made her eyes squint into half-moons. It’s in her laugh lines, deep and creased on her face.

Yes. It was the correct decision, even if it makes his stomach churn anxiously whenever he thought about it.

She’s so much more beautiful when she isn’t his.

And it was because of how vividly dazzling she looked tonight – fake rubies, sapphires, and his favourite trench coat – that his fingers refused to obey the commands that his mind was giving out.

_To: Makoto Niijima_  
_Sent At: 11:02 P.M._

_Happy birthday, Makoto. I hope you’ve been well._

The read receipt comes much quicker than he expects, and as much as he tries to suppress it, his heart can’t help but pound in double-time – out of nervousness? No, it doesn‘t seem that way, since his palms weren’t growing sweaty – when he notices the ellipses bubbling away in the conversation.

_To: Ren Amamiya_  
_Sent At: 11:05 P.M._

_Thank-you, Ren._

One minute later, his phone beeps once again.  
  
_To: Ren Amamiya_  
_Sent At: 11:06 A.M._

_For the gifts, too. It’s very thoughtful. I also hope you’ve been doing well. Phyllis will be satisfied. _

_(Read)_

Ren has all right to be upset with Ryuji’s incapability to keep secrets. Technically, he’s known that since their days of the Phantom Thieves. Why would this be any surprise? This time, however, the outrage doesn't worsen any further. Instead, it slowly ebbs away into something familiar: Satisfaction.

Just this once, he lets a weak smile crack on his handsome features. And yes, he won’t give the boy a hard time for his accidental outburst.

* * *

Growing up, Makoto has always been the worst liar in her family. She tried – oh, she did. At the age of five, she once tripped and knocked over the _bonsai_ that her late father had been nurturing. And instead of confessing what she had done, she loudly proclaimed that Sae had done it – only to burst into silly tears soon after.

Ever since then, she had made a secretive vow to herself that she would never fib ever again.

Ironic, to say the least, for Makoto now feels like she’s living as the protagonist in the famed fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf. Here she is, telling lies twenty-four seven but the most significant difference here is that she’s not enjoying this one bit. She’s living in a phantasmal world built on stilted smiles, murmured replies of reassurance, ‘_I hope he’s well_’ and ‘_I’m alright_’s.

_‘I’m alright.’_

It’s a phrase that has popped up in her daily conversations regularly. An implication of not feeling too great, but not terrible, either. So-so. Mediocre. It’s synonymous to being alive, heart beating and what not – but how ironic it is, to be able to find space to breathe even in the hellish pits of her own purgatory. She ought to give herself some credit, though. She’s survived for nearly half a year now, even though it still pains her occasionally to wake up to an empty, cold bed and an apartment clear of the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee that he served to her in bed on his day-offs.

But like most things, she finds that there _are_ benefits to one’s actions. And with lying, the more you repeat your words like a programmed animatronic, slowly but surely, you become inclined to believe them. Fooling oneself, as they call it. Perhaps she’ll be able to reach a stage where her words match up with her inner thoughts by the end of the year if she persists in her efforts –

Although, an unintentional conversation with Ann during an impromptu Monday lunch makes her contemplate otherwise.

Yellowish crumbs coat the models’ upper lip as she asks kindly (As she always is), “How are you?”

Robotically (Eiko wasn't wrong about that in the slightest) with a smile on display, Makoto replies, “I'm alright.”

“No, Makoto. Tell me the truth. And nothing but the whole truth. How are you feeling?”

Needless to say, nothing – absolutely nothing – ever escapes Ann Takamaki’s keen eyes.

And it’s there that Makoto realizes: There’s a drawback to fabricating so many untruths. It emotionally dulls you, almost to a point where whatever remnants of self-esteem left behind are chipped away bit by bit. That solid façade that she puts on display? It’s all shitty bravado in the end.

Ann empathetically assures Makoto that it’s alright to _not_ be alright. “Break-ups are difficult to navigate through, Makoto. I know firsthand. Although, have you considered...?”

“New hobbies?”

The lean blonde suggests finding something to occupy her time with. “Or, not even just a hobby. Something to distract your mind off things just so you don’t have to think about it.”

Makoto’s read about it. Distractions, according to the pages of a well-renowned book written by a psychologist, often work well: Spending time with friends; taking a well-deserved solo vacation to a far-off town; knitting and crochet, apparently, ‘soothes the soul’.

And so, distractions are what she’ll occupy her free time with from now on.

Like how Futaba wanted to go shopping for a new watch. Not for herself, Makoto ends up realizing when the younger orange-haired girl drags her from store to store in search of the perfect gift to present to Yusuke for their three-year anniversary. A versatile Casio, or the classically sleek Daniel Wellington? Makoto suggests neither, advising encouragingly, “Make him something, Futaba. He’ll appreciate it so much more. Isn’t there an art studio that you can rent here to make pottery, too? He’s mentioned wanting a new cup for a while!”

(Did Ren and her share the brain cell or something? Futaba wonders. He said the _exact_ same thing. But of course, she knows better than to mention this.)

Like how Haru was finally (_Finally!_) taking her first vacation to the gorgeous, sunny country of Spain. Over finger sandwiches and a beautiful tray of perfectly-prepared sweets, the poofy-haired young woman shows no shame in displaying her excitement about towering cathedrals from the sixteenth, seventeenth centuries. Makoto offers to drive the kind-hearted heiress to the airport, and she leaves the terminal with a promise to bring home souvenirs and to bombard her phone with pictures of _paella_, sandy beaches and sun-kissed skin. Makoto eagerly anticipates it.

And the biggest distraction of all: How fair-skinned, redheaded Kasumi Yoshizawa may potentially take her place with a naturally cheerful disposition and raw, languid sexuality that couldn’t be contained in that slender body of hers.

It’s not like Makoto deliberately sought it out, though. Rather, it pops up within her Facebook notifications, bright and early on a Tuesday morning when she was making her way to her seminar. After getting settled into her seat, she precariously presses on the ‘1’, a growing feeling of dread filling her stomach as she reads through the bolded, black text. 

* * *

Makoto doesn’t know the girl _well._

She knows her just well enough to call her a passing acquaintance of Rens'. Just well enough from the day that he had introduced them that she kept her formalities and manners in check, remaining straitlaced and formal. Just well enough to know that she’s a nice, considerate and kind-hearted freshman with a spirit for adventure and a refined palate. Just well enough through the colourful posters plastered on the bulletin boards around Ren’s campus that she’s a skilled rhythmic gymnast, training to compete in the next world tournament.

And just well enough to know that she’s confided in Futaba numerous times prior that she had admired Ren. Not just for his flashy appearance and his stylish, charming aura, the girl had pressed hastily with her elegant hands scrunching up her handkerchief nervously, but because of his personality. He was respectful and treated her with tender kindness.

And that admiration eventually transcended into something else for the young girl. Something Makoto recognizes to be a lot like puppy love.

_Just like how they were, sitting side-by-side at Crossroads sharing a childish promise to be mutual study partners that very day so many years ago._

The question –_‘Would you mind? I wouldn’t want to date him knowing that you would be uncomfortable with the idea, Niijima-senpai'_ – doesn’t exactly surprise her, but it still leaves her breath hitched and her body paralyzed. It wasn’t until her classmate had poked her out of her stupor with a ballpoint pen to formulate a proper <strike>reply </strike>lie.

‘_No. No, of course not._’

* * *

And about a week and a half later, it pops up once again. Their profile pictures, stuck side by side, with the words: In a Relationship written neatly underneath. There are congratulatory words written on the status and likes upon likes that causes Makoto’s stomach to twist and turn.

It’s not good to feel this way, because God, the last thing she needs is to grow resentful over a perfectly happy pair.

But at the same time, it’s not like she can ignore this, either. So how _exactly_ is she supposed to feel? Relieved or uncomfortably jealous? Overjoyed that he’s managed to find someone else to pursue a relationship with, or stupidly infuriated over capricious hearts easily bewitched by waist-length hair and twirling somersaults? The confusion leaves her perpetually mystified, but it’s at a dinner with Futaba and Ann a few nights later where her answer comes, crystal-clear.

In their muted conversation, words such as freer and happier are overheard, as does, _‘He likes her quite a bit, huh?_’ 

And at once, whatever indignation that had welled up within her veins trickles out of her body immediately. She might not want to believe it, but the reality is slapping her in the face right there. Ren found happiness with someone else when she couldn’t give it to him. And if Kasumi manages to keep his smile intact, keep him fed and warm and healthy, then what right does she have to voice out her discomfort?

They’re all things that she had wished for him, anyway.

So, she gives the status update a ‘Like’ and a smiley face a few days later. It’s a bit of a late reaction, but she hopes it conveys her sincere wishes that they last. 

Still, she finds herself letting a few tears escape once she places her mobile away and crawls into her blanket, her cheeks stinging from the aftermath.

* * *

It’s not that Ren’s heart is growing fickle. Or that he was deliberately using Kasumi’s affections for an ulterior motive. He tries to explain this to Yusuke and Ryuji one night over hot _sake_ and barbeque that yes, he _does_ like her; he enjoys her companionship and the light-hearted banter and her adorable-as-hell squeals whenever they went to the batting center.

In short, he likes her for _her_. Yet somehow, his two friends seem to be taking in the information with pursed lips and skeptical frowns. 

“I dunno, man,” Ryuji says slowly, his arms crossed firmly against his chest. “Somethin’ just ain’t sittin’ right with me.”

“Ren, as much as I would like to think you’re making the right decisions, I believe this is what people call a ‘rebound’,” Yusuke chimes in. “I strongly advise against this.”

Even Sojiro – wise, logical Sojiro with at least thirty years of life experience, with a good chunk of it pining over a woman that he was unable to have – offers nothing but silence when Ren explains the situation one evening at Leblanc. Even worse, there was a particular glaze that the younger man had recognized in his beady eyes that made his goosebumps rise, almost as if telling him that he was taking the wrong steps forward.

It isn’t until Ren gives his gratitude for the free drink and is half a step out the door when Sojiro’s gruff rasp emerges from behind.

“Kid. Take it from me. Do what you have to do to live your life, but just don’t hurt innocent people while you’re at it, alright?”

Ren can detect the subliminal message in his words, but whether he takes his guardians’ advice, however, is an entirely different story.

(He doesn’t.)

* * *

Kasumi is a contrast in comparison to Makoto.

Where Makoto is stiff, overbearing and inflexible in her decisions at times, Kasumi is open, warm and inviting. Case in point: The redhead doesn’t argue back heatedly when Ren suggests pizza over _tonkatsu_. Chirpily, she nods and says, “Of course, Ren-_kun_! Whatever you say!” Had it been Makoto, she would’ve pointed out the dangers of eating artery-clogging foods right away, coaxing him into tuna poke bowls and disgusting brown rice instead.

Like the Spring breeze drifting in, dainty and effervescent, she’s a breath of fresh air brought in to blow away his dreariness. And it works.

They smile often; he pats her on the shoulder encouragingly when she bounds towards him playfully like a puppy; she insists on ice-cream dates, to which he obliges and they get separate cones rather than sharing one; they study, wait for public transit together with her head lulling against the glass rather than his shoulder in a dreamless, peaceful slumber once they board the bus. She prepares him with a _bento_ box on Wednesday, and he’ll pay for sweet treats and doughnuts from the campus café on Friday. It doesn’t take them much time to establish a routine that they follow to a tee.

Kasumi is happy when she is with Ren. And likewise, he is, too.

At least, that’s what he tries to convince himself.

Because in a perfect world, they _should_ be able to hold hands properly a few days in. He shouldn’t be squirming any time she gets too close. He shouldn’t be hesitating with deep breaths and subsequently racked with guilt when she waits a bit too long for him to kiss her good-bye. He shouldn’t unconsciously remark if she’s ever thought about cutting her hair.

And it’s three weeks in, with him waiting patiently outside her lecture hall for class to finish, did Ren _finally_ start questioning his actions. Hell, who is he kidding? He’s not falling head over heels for her. He’s just being a damn asshole that wanted someone – _anyone_ – to make him feel whole again. And this fleeting state of happiness that he’s experiencing?

It’s only a temporary placeholder for someone else.

The worst part of it all? Kasumi recognizes it, too. Even though she desperately tries to not believe it, but the evidence is too clear-cut. She’s observed how Ren’s eyes glinted whenever they set their focus on her back then. Practically incomparable. Adding on, the way Ren treats her so carefully, as if she were fragile glass, refusing to engage in any acts of intimacy, isn’t out of protection, genuine concern or nervousness.

It’s because she’s _not_ and will _never_ be Makoto Niijima.

* * *

The final blow, however, comes when she least expects it. They’re standing, side by side, in the ice-cream parlour that she drags him to regularly, observing the new flavours on display. They make some small talk here and there, but there’s something suspicious in the air that doesn’t sit right with Kasumi today. She’s particularly guarded – and for good reason.

“Ren-_kun_, I think I want to try that. It looks intriguing, doesn't it?”

In response, Ren laughs, a bit too casually and a bit too light. “Makoto, you don’t even _like_ mango.”

At the sound of her name, Kasumi’s knuckles turn stark-white as she clenches her hand into a fist, refusing to meet his hardened gaze with her stare, livid and anguished altogether.

“Wrong. I _do_ like mango. And for what it’s worth – “

The tiny tremble in her voice. Oh, God. No. Not again.

“I’m very sorry that I'm not Niijima-_senpai_.” 

* * *

The very next day, Makoto awakens to a jittery shock. According to the social media platform, the relationship has been nullified. Vanished from the online world without a trace, as if it had never existed. It takes a few long moments to register the lack of association, but once it does, she can’t say that she’s exhilarated or relieved about the news.

Rather, she feels ten times worse. While she played no part (With Ann and Haru reassuring her of this fact for the past two hours), she still considers herself an unintentional accomplice. A homewrecker. A cheater.

And plus...

This has already been Ren’s second punch to the gut _this year_. How many more times must he be punished this way? If there was a God somewhere up there that could hear her plea, then _why_? Why put him through so much sorrow?

He’s been arrested. Wrongly accused. Gossiped about. Incarcerated. Tortured to the point that the skin on his wrists was left bleeding and scabbed, his flawless complexion bruised and battered in hues of purple and blue.

So, _why_? For a moment, Makoto squeezes her eyes shut, sighing. If she could, she’d much rather take the heavy burden over him. Ren should not be suffering through this all on his own.

The willful redhead’s standing in the courtyard in casual work-out attire and once Makoto descends the bus and makes her way onto the cobblestone path, her voice rings out, clear as day. “Niijima-_senpai_.”

There’s a strange, wistful expression set on her face when Makoto turns on her heel to observe her squarely. Shoulders back, posture as straight and firm as the thin line set upon her lips: The older woman suddenly grows conscious, pulling and smoothing the hem of her skirt.

“Yoshizawa-_san_.” The younger girl appears disgruntled, almost as if she were anticipating an apology from Makoto. As for what exactly she needs to apologize for, technically, she’s not quite certain, but it whispers off her tongue, her words laced with guilt. “I’m so sorry if anything ill had happened between you and Ren, but please. If there’s anything that you must confront me about or if I played an unintentional role in your break-up, would you mind letting it wait until I’m free?”

“Niijima-_senpai_, I don’t want to hear apologies from you. It isn’t your fault.” Shaking her head, her bangs fall over her eyes lightly. Makoto briefly wonders whether she was trying to hide her tears threatening to fall. “All I wanted to relay is – “

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She watches intently, unknowingly drifting closer towards the shorter girl in shuffled, silent steps. Seeing the girl in such a despairing state pains her, urging her to extend her hand forward to offer support. 

“He – he called me Makoto.” 

And just like that, Makoto’s body instantly immobilizes as if she’s been shot by a tranquilizer, even more so when Kasumi finally gathers enough courage to look her in the eye. That trace of heartbreak: She’s witnessed it first-hand. It’s not just in her voice; it’s in her gaze, causing her heart to lurch sympathetically. And all of her fears – suppressed from Ann and Haru’s encouragement hours ago – emerge once again from the depths.

It _is_ her fault, after all. 

“I don’t think I need to explain further, Niijima-_senpai_.”

“Oh, Yoshizawa-_san_.” Too dumbstruck, she tries to find the proper words to convey her apology. “I – I truly don’t know what to say. I’m so sor – “

“Like I said, it’s not your fault. I just think – “ Keeping her breath leveled, she advises shortly, “You should probably check on him, too.”

* * *

The evening starts at Crossroads, hazy and intoxicated. The bartender looks up from the soapy basin to observe the only patron in the bar. She shouldn’t have indulged in his needy requests for more – how many shot glasses have piled up already? Sixth...seventh...that’s his _eighth_, isn’t it? She winces when he bangs the tiny cup against the counter, demanding loudly, “Lala-_san_, hit me with all you’ve got – “

“No,” she declines firmly with a curt shake of her head. “That’s enough, you.” Wiping her hands on a dishcloth, she takes the empty glassware away. “Ren, this is highly irregular. What on Earth happened?”

“What happened? What happened?!” Ren snorts. As much of a prideful man that he is, refusing to portray such a pathetic image in front of a trusted confidant, the alcohol _breaks_ his fractured façade. “Oh, nothing special. I lost a friend. And I also lost my damn girlfriend.” He gives his head a violent shake, his voice cracking into an upsetting rasp. “I’m - “

_I’m not over her. I don’t think I’ll ever get over her. And it’s my fault that I let her loose._

Lala-_san_ shushes him with a soothing hand rubbing through his hair, the other clinging onto her cigarette. “There, there, Ren.”

Whilst Ren never discloses this to her, he really _did_ appreciate her comforting touch. At the very least, he has someone that will accept his deplorable wallowing as he sat alone and forgotten, with his breath reeking and heart burning, excruciated with pain.

Except, he’s wrong. There will _always_ be one other person in this world that would never let him slip through the cracks. The last thing his bleary eye catches sight of is a familiar shadow, hurrying towards him and the solacing caress lifting away – 

And then, everything fades into black.

* * *

Ren is a responsible drinker. He’s one of those rare types that knew their limits, never going above and beyond his normal tolerance. If he drank, he never drove. And even when egged on by work colleagues or classmates to join in on the fun, he would only raise his half-drunken glass into the air as a salute and continue to watch the game of beer pong from the sidelines. Makoto never grew concerned; she naturally trusted him to make the right decisions.

Until now, that is.

One o’clock was when she _finally_ managed to heave an unconscious Ren home but not before cleaning up the projectile vomit hurled all over the countertop at Crossroads. How he managed to do both was beyond her understanding, but that didn’t stop her from rushing forward to assist the friendly barkeep, muttering ‘_I’m so sorry_’ under her breath. She’s been saying it too much recently.

Two o’clock was when she finally got over her embarrassment to remove his clothing, sticky with sweat and reeking of half-digested food, and assist him into his sleepwear. Underneath the pale moonlight illuminating through the curtains and into <strike>their</strike> his room, he doesn’t look like the same person that she had once shared a bed with. The person that previously opened his arms invitingly for her to join him – now looks concerningly thin. Ribs jutting, skin sallow: His unhealthy appearance was hidden underneath his tailored shirts and trousers that gave a contradicting impression.

Beneath it all, he almost looked frail, like he would wither away.

She couldn’t help let her hand run through his fringe worriedly, like how he used to love. Falling into old habits again (How could she not?), but she immediately stopped once he started to groan. Is it just her mind playing awful tricks on her, or did he mumble her name? She decided it’s the former, retracting her hand immediately to hurry into the kitchen to catch her breath.

Although, she reasoned it’s probably alright to be selfish, even if it’s for a fleeting moment. Makoto sincerely wished that he’s dreaming up something blissful.

The pantry looked untouched and pristine. Just like how she had left it. Her home.

(No, no. This is no longer her home.)

There’s a new instant coffee brewer tucked away to the side, but the cooking utensils, the chopsticks, forks, knives, and spoons: They were still in their rightful place. Much to her surprise, her Buchimaru-kun apron was also lingering around, hanging lifeless and covered in lint. Donning it on, the refrigerator had piqued her interest soon after –

Eventually, three o’clock and four o’clock pass by within the blink of an eye, with her standing by the stove and completely within her element: Cracking eggs, frying whatever leftover vegetables and meats that he had stored that hadn’t gone rotten just yet into a somewhat edible dish of _omurice_. His staple hangover meal. 

And by five o’clock, with the smell of a homecooked meal wafting through his nose, Ren finally stirs to a groggy wake. There's someone there - someone familiar, sitting at his side. And even though the living space lacked natural lighting, he doesn’t mistake the blurred silhouette for anyone else.

“A-are you up?”

_Oh, God. This is awkward._

Reaching for his glasses, he pulls them on and mumbles, “Y-yeah. Uh, hey Makoto. Now, I know I was visibly out of it for the last four hours, but mind filling in a bit of the puzzle for me?”

_This is extremely awkward._

“I’m sorry, Ren. I know you probably weren’t expecting me here,” Makoto begins offhandedly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. There are wrinkles creasing on her outfit, and the dark circles underneath her eyes appear more pronounced than usual. That’s when it hits him: Was she here for the _entire night_?

“I didn’t mind it by the way,” she adds softly as if she had read his mind. “I’m not sure what lead you to do such a thing, getting yourself so inebriated to the point that you would pass out, but it’s not like – like I could leave you alone like that now, could I?”

“Alright. Point taken, but how did you find me?”

“I um, well, I know I should’ve uninstalled the application back then, but – “ Her voice trails off as she withdraws her mobile phone from her pocket. On display was the tracking application that he had jokingly installed for her a year and a half back.

(_“Just in case you wanted to locate me right away.” _

_“Ren, that is **so** not necessary. This app is faulty, too. It listed you as ‘in the Sea of Japan’ when you went fishing with Ryuji.”_)

“I kept it with me.”

“Stalking me again, eh, Makoto? I guess high school habits die hard.”

He tries to laugh it off; she doesn’t respond. They slip back into silence for a few prolonged moments before she nods affirmatively.

“Deleting it slipped my mind, I presume.”

“Mm. Must’ve.” And then, apprehensively, he dares to say with a hand rubbing the nape of his neck, “If I said anything stupid, I apologize. It was probably the alcohol talking.”

Her eyes betray nothing, and she says nothing to challenge him – but she can’t ignore the way her insides wrench as if they were plunged deep into a bucket of ice-cold water.

“This place looks exactly the same.”

“I KonMaried a lot of things, actually.” 

One thing that Ren had discovered during his probation was that he actually had a knack for organization and cleanliness. Now, rest assured, he wasn’t the male counterpart of the smiley woman, but he definitely drew inspiration from her meticulous methods to live a more minimalistic lifestyle. He recalls watching her brief segment on Stephen Colbert a few years back, with the charismatic host humorously questioning whether the frosted cinnamon roll he prepared for the pseudo-skit incited joy.

Applying this methodology to their break-up, and subsequently, the little bits and bobs that she carelessly left behind, was no different. It helped him, mentally and physically, to toss out the worn-out toothbrush. Those Converse sneakers, her fluffy slippers, a worn sweatshirt, three adult colouring books and a damaged copy of _Yakuza 0 _were added to the pile. He had felt cleaner. Uncluttered and tidy, with at least a quarter of the strain wiped away like chalk. 

But some things – he just couldn’t find the fortitude within him to toss into the garbage.

Like her apron, for one.

And the Buchimaru-kun fleece blanket, currently draped over her shoulders like a cloak. As a makeshift robe, it suits her. 

(_The art of cleanliness, my fucking ass_, he chastises himself.)

“I didn’t realize that you – kept this,” she stammers, pulling it tighter around her body. “It’s so musty.”

“Yes, well – “ Ren says slowly. What _is_ he supposed to say? That he kept it, just to hold onto the hope that one day, she’ll return? As if that would ever happen. “Makoto, this is yours. You can take it with you, if you want.”

“You’re the one who bought it first. I left it here, so that makes it yours instead,” she points out blankly, averting her gaze. Is it her words cutting deep into his chest that makes him ache? Or perhaps her stubbornness? Either way, it perturbs him much more than he would’ve preferred. Ren swallows and repeats the question with different wording.

“You know the type of person I am, Makoto. I don’t like starting my weekends with arguments. And like I said, it’s a gift,” he presses. “It’s rightfully _yours_.”

“..._Ren_.”

“If not as a gift, then as a thank-you for taking care of me last night, alright?”

Once again, she does not bother to argue, knowing that Ren’s alluring way with words will sway her. So, Makoto nods, proceeding to peer at the hands on her wristwatch.

“I should probably – get going.”

_No._

Without wasting a second, Ren flips his covers over and gets to his feet, albeit the fact that he was still suffering from the aftereffects of the vodka shots. They stumble over one another clumsily, with one arm outstretched, grasping blindly for the girl evading his grip. “Makoto, I – “

_No. Don’t go. Please don’t go. The apartment feels more complete this way. _

He feels the fabric of her jacket, clinging onto her skin, but the cotton dissipates from his fingertips as she pulls away. “Y-you’re still drunk, Ren. D-don't be hasty.”

Hungover, he may be; drunk, he is not. His mind may still be fuzzy, but he’s aware enough to know that he _doesn’t_ want to see her leave. Whatever force compels him to behave so irrationally, he doesn’t quite care. All that matters is _her_, doing the complete opposite. She’s shifting backward in a slow shuffle, her lips clamped tight to keep herself together. He knows that look.

He knows that look all too well.

“I made um, extra food in the microwave. Y-you can heat it up if you need to.”

“Makoto, I don’t give a shit about the – “

“Well, you _should_! As friends, that’s – that’s precisely what we do!” She replies hotly, although this sensation – was this what superstitious people called déjà vu? It made him reminisce of Christmas Eve all over again. Only this time, the distinctive difference was in the tone of her words. Years ago, he heard pained sadness that cut him deep, invaded his insides and twisted his organs one by one. 

This time, he hears an ominous tremble as she unlocks the door and steps out.

“Please. Just – take care of yourself, okay?”

* * *

Ren’s hunches are, more often than not, never wrong. As it turns out, the blanket played the role as ‘parting gift’ just a few weeks later. He should’ve taken her farewell as foreshadowing.

Makoto reached out to him first, the timing a little too perfect, a little too suspicious. It had only been a week or two after that near-traumatic night, but Ren couldn’t help but wonder what compelled her to do so. Perhaps, was she experiencing the same restlessness that had kept his heart throbbing recently?

Maybe. Or maybe not. He’s such a child, hoping for the former. 

A part of him warned him to not hold onto that tiny glimmer of hope that spoke of second opportunities and whatnot, but hey, he’s only twenty-three. Making mistakes is commonplace during young adulthood. So, he accepted her proposal. A tad too hasty, a tad too hopeful.

“How are you?” He asked tactfully.

“I’m doing fine. And you?”

It’s incessant small talk here and there as they sauntered along the deserted boardwalk on the artificial island of _Odaiba: _A notorious proposal hotspot for young couples. They passed by at least three pairs, with the men dropping to their knees, and their partners screaming shrilly in delight. They could’ve been like that, too, once upon a dream.

“I’m sorry about that night, by the way. I didn’t mean to act so rough.”

But Makoto barely reacted, keeping her expression neutral and her face blank of emotion. She played pretend that warm afternoon, putting up a guarded front. Acting like that evening never existed. And frankly, it hurt him. It pained him with the intensity of a thousand blades being shoved into his body, because her response – or, lack of a response, really – spoke louder than anything else.

This was not a time to be reminiscing about their colourful past. This was not a means of getting back together.

“So, may I ask why you wanted to grab coffee?”

This was her, with her hand clutching the strap of her bag tightly, telling him, “Ren, I’m leaving for _Kyoto_.” Honest and resolute and firm. 

Ren remembered blinking a few times before it fully registered. _Oh._

“Why?”

Oh, but it’s not like he had to _ask_. He knew exactly why. She had been vying for an internship with a prestigious organization in the _Kansai _region, wanting to gain some work experience before trekking merrily along her career path towards being a full-fledged commissioner. He had accompanied her to the postal office when sending in her applications, double-checked her personal statements and edited them to be smooth and concise, soothed her less-than-calm moments with tea and massages as she eagerly awaited the news. Eventually, she treated the radio silence as rejection. So did he, thinking no more of it and pushing it out of his mind altogether.

What were the odds that it would come back to haunt him again?

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice faked with enthusiasm. “I guess all that waiting paid off in the end.”

“You put in quite a bit of work, too, Ren. I’ll always appreciate the extra eyes.”

“Did you tell anybody else? I’d like to hear about Ryuji’s reaction.”

“Nobody.” A small smile graced her lips then. “You’re the first.”

First: Just like how he was her first. For a brief second, he couldn’t help but genuinely beam. She thought of _him_ first. Him, of all people. It’s like he’s living his childhood again, as a spoiled six-year-old awarded special permission to open his Christmas presents early; it’s special – 

“I’m quite honoured.”

But then, the reality hit him again like a gigantic slap in the face. Perhaps, that’s why she didn’t bother bringing it up, because in the end, what did it matter? She’s leaving – for God knows how long.

(Two years, she clarifies. Two. Just a little over seven-hundred days. Quite a vast difference from the four months that they’ve discussed before. The figure makes him hurl.)

“Well,” he said, swallowing thickly. “What kind of Phantom Thieves would we be if we didn’t host a farewell party for our regal, proud Queen?”

“I don’t know.” Makoto inhaled. And then, slowly, prudently: “I want all of us to share one final happy memory together. If it's okay.”

* * *

In another world, the Phantom Thieves would not be holding a celebratory farewell for the Mom Friend of their group. Maybe it would just be a regular get-together: Perhaps a night to commemorate Ryuji and Ann’s fifth anniversary, leading to an unexpected, intoxicated proposal with the dirty soda can tab as a substitute ring.

In another world, perhaps it’s just one cruel prank that Futaba pulled off, enlisting assistance from Ryuji and Yusuke, to get their favourite ‘_ship_’ back together. The evening would subsequently end with Makoto, hands on her hips, fuming furiously at their meddling. Ren would join in, too, but not without snaking an arm around her waist to pull her close. The others would coo at the heartwarming sight, with Ryuji punching a triumphant fist in the air, walloping. 

But in this one, it’s probably just God’s way of having him atone for whatever sins he had left.

Their love – or whatever complicated remnants they had remaining – is officially coming to an end. Makoto will be starting a new life, in a different city several hundred miles away. The reality is hitting dreadfully close. Her _shinkansen_ ticket is paid; the facility hired a renowned moving company to assist with moving her furniture. She states that she’s looking forward to interacting with other people. Yusuke airily suggests that she may fall for someone else – earning daggers from virtually everybody. But hell, he’s not wrong. She might find much pleasure in the quaintness of _Gion _and _Arashiyama. _She might establish new roots there if her superiors take note of her fortitude and work ethic. She may never come back.

Bittersweet as it may be for Ren to swallow this, he’s slowly but surely learning to accept the hand of cards that life had dealt him. The universe _had_ been fair, giving him a multitude of opportunities that he failed to take – simply because of his belief that his actions had been virtuous.

At least Makoto is one step closer, and he couldn’t be more grateful for the opportunity.

They, on the other hand, have taken two steps back. And the universe saw it, too. Their lives would no longer become aligned, but frankly, if that’s what it wanted, then who is _he_ to stand against the twisted whims of fate? 

Throughout the duration of the night, Ren manages to keep his crooked smile in place when Ryuji and Yusuke engage in a heated battle of rock-papers-scissors, with the loser drowning themselves in glasses of Sojiro’s best whiskey and rum. He asks Haru about her recent business ventures and her vegetable garden as he samples her homemade _bruschetta_. He makes a promise to Futaba that he’ll get her the new Featherman figurine for her birthday, only for Yusuke to rudely interrupt that he’ll purchase it instead.

“As a boyfriend, it is _my_ duty.”

But he catches it. He’s not some dumb, ignorant fool. And plus, Makoto’s not as sly as she thinks she is. On one hand, she’s listening to Ann jabber about hair care and nail maintenance – all the while throwing him worrisome glances that he tries to brush off. And again, it happens when he emerged from the single-stall bathroom having been in there a moment too long.

It’s torturous. What the hell is she even thinking? Why is she still so concerned? Her words say one thing, but her actions show otherwise. Then again, what else is new? It’s one of her weaknesses, being hypocritical –

_God_. His self-control is depleting as quickly as ice melting in the sun, and sooner or later, he’s bound to do something reckless. As briskly as he can, he dons on his jacket and disappears into the arid September air, announcing that he was picking up some more snacks from the nearby supermarket. 

* * *

Following behind the footsteps of an ex-boyfriend is not something that the normally level-headed woman would find appropriate, but the thing is, how _can_ she _not_?

All this time, she’s kept herself distant and wary, providing enough cushioning to safeguard her heart from the very things that linked him to her. And admittedly, she did have her moments of weakness. Similar to how a child learning to ride a bicycle had fallen onto the pavement with their knees and elbows scraped bloody, but she still got over it. She always got back on track. 

But that one night, where she couldn’t resist the temptation of Kasumi’s warning, with him calling out her name, nearly begging for her to stay and his hand reaching forward to touch her, _everything_ had come undone so easily. And there she is once more, snowballing and colliding into him again. She never learns, does she?

She sighs.

She’s so – no, her _heart_ is so easy, but she surmises, that’s probably what happens when you never fully get over a person. 

Without saying another word to the slightly tipsy group, she swiftly follows. It doesn’t take her long to locate him – it turns out, Ren made a brief detour to the second-hand shop, browsing through the limited merchandise and seemingly deep in thought.

“Tin clasps and silk yarns?” She laughs. “Those days of lockpicks and breaking into treasure chests are far behind us, no?”

Ren whirls around with genuine surprise written all over his face, following with a sheepish smile. “Was my presence truly that important that the Queen had to come and escort me back?”

Makoto returns it. “Even Queens can’t sit back on all duties. I would presume that you would need some help. Ryuji ate through all the squid crackers. We’ll need more to keep him satisfied for the next two hours.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t decline. She steps a little closer. 

Inside the supermarket, he picks up two large packages and cracks some joke about Yusuke and Futaba’s on-going feud about Pringles versus Calbee. She chides him with a poke against his temple, providing him with thorough instructions to watch over the youngster’s diet when she leaves.

“Less than five grams of sodium per day.”

“You never let up, do you?”

And when they emerge, it’s there that she decides to ask, with their footsteps syncing into a metrical pace, “So, I guess, I just wanted to know. How are you feeling? A-about all this?”

She watches him inhale. And exhale. Looks up into the night sky before them, splattered with stars. The full moon is dazzling tonight, illuminating the angular curves and edges of his face as they walked. She’s seen this up close many times in the past, but tonight, this image is ephemerally melancholy. She wants it to last a little longer.

“I’m truly happy for you, Makoto.”

_That’s not a lie, is it? _Something on her face must’ve given it away, because he ends up reiterating earnestly, “Really, I _am_. You’ve been coveting for this for goodness knows how long now, and this is a huge stepping stone for your career. And the fact that they’re extending the duration of your internship – hell, that just means that they look highly upon on your capabilities. I’m glad.”

“Ren.”

“And as your lifelong friend,” he says simply. “I can’t be prouder.”

_Friends. _

And then more affirmatively, she thinks with bleary eyes, _yes_. _That is what we are, and that is what we will continue to be._ Everything else that had happened in the past was mere coincidences; mere oversights. No more overthinking this time; she ought to let it go.

<strike>(Even if she still doesn’t want to.)</strike>

They slip into a pregnant silence. She hears nothing but the melancholic chirps of the buzzing insects hiding in the patches of grass. He shuts his eyes and restrains from slapping himself on the shoulder on an acting role well played.

“Ren, would you mind if – we hugged one last time?”

His arms are weighed down by their purchases, but even so, he lifts them into the air, opening them invitingly for her. Always reserved for her, no matter the circumstance. “Of _course_ not, Makoto.”

He’s warm when she steps into his touch. So is she, almost feverish? He makes no mention of her hairband that digs against his chin; he used to make endless complaints about the plastic, but somehow, he's missed this feeling - and he actually likes it, for once. She wraps her arms around his waist, lightly at first, and then tighter, fighting the urge to run her fingers through his hair as she always did –

And just like that, it ends.

She takes two steps back, Makoto releases him from her hold first. But even for someone who is not quick to pick up on body language, the subtle reluctance emanating from his touch as she withdraws is too much to bear. She digs her nails into her palm, and with all the brightness mustered in her voice, says, “Please, stay happy.” 

“I will. You, too.” 

* * *

Three days before her departure, and Ren doesn’t – or, no, that’s not right: _Tries his best_ is more likely – bat an eyelash when Ryuji and Yusuke send him evidence of their hard work. In the image, Makoto has a towel wrapped around her neck, her hair tied into a tiny ponytail behind her. There’s only a small number of cardboard boxes remaining, littered throughout the nearly-bare townhouse. Many hands make light work was the accompanying text, forcing a bleak chuckle out of his lungs and into the air. He sends them an encouraging thumbs-up, deleting the photographs soon after.

(But not before setting a reminder in his calendar to send her a housewarming gift once she settles in comfortably.)

* * *

Two days before her departure, and Makoto finds herself in a slight dilemma. Through all the hustle and bustle, last-minute paperwork signing and meet-ups with old classmates and friends, she’s neglected to care for the wilted succulent. It’s an alarming sight, to be truthful, with the heavyweight ferns threatening to topple itself over. So, rather than spending time with a professor that had provided her with a reference letter, she sends him an apologetic e-mail, running through it just once to proofread for any errors or spelling mistakes. Her arms are dirtied and soiled as she transplants the fragile plant into the piece of pottery.

It suits Phyllis, actually. Ren’s always had a keen eye for design when she didn’t.

Still, she doesn’t trust the movers to be careful during the hours-long drive, so she makes the decision to carry Phyllis in her arms aboard the _shinkansen_.

“Three hours with _this_ thing?!” Eiko proclaimed rudely. “C’mon, Makoto, are you serious? You're not just the Mom Friend. You're going to be the ridiculous Plant Mom Friend!”

Yes, she nods. She is serious, and she doesn't mind the nickname either.

* * *

One day remaining, and Ren is spending his afternoon – not with Makoto, but sitting in the attic with Futaba and Mona, playing an old-school video game on the dated console. Halfway through a boss battle, apropos of nothing, she blurts out, “She’s leaving tomorrow, y’know. Three fifteen. _Tokyo_ Station. Platform four.”

There’s a high-pitched _zing _that emits from the CRT television monitor. She’s lost. Her eyes are no longer focused on the monitor. They’re searching him, leaving him incredibly uncomfortable.

Ren sets the controller onto his lap, staring sternly in return. Her words seem to provoke something within him, and defensively, he asks, “And?”

There’s a weighted pressure sitting heavily upon his shoulders, and bristly fur eventually coils around his neck. It’s Mona. “Never thought I would use the words pathetic to describe you, Joker.”

“Mona, what are you – ?”

"Ren, you’re _really_ just giving up like that, huh?”

Ren says nothing.

“You still love Makoto, and it’s clear as day, Makoto loves you just as much – but I’ll tell you straight away that _you_ screwed up. _You’re_ the one who broke up with her,” the feline snaps, irate. “If you want a second opportunity, well, tough luck. It’s not going to come to you so easily if you don’t fight for it. You know that better than _anyone_.”

Ren is not known for having a foul temper, but with Mona’s constant mewling in his ear, he might just start developing one. “I don’t want to talk about this with you – ”

“Fine. I’ll leave it at that, but you know what?” Hopping off Ren’s back, the cat struts forward with a malicious snarl curled on his snout. “I am so disappointed in you, _Joker_. Oh, no. Wait. My apologies; you don’t even deserve that codename. The Joker I know isn’t a coward.”

* * *

Some ten hours before her departure, in the dead of the night, Ren types this.

_I know I have no rights to say this, but fuck it. I miss you. I’m still not over you. I’m still so in love with you that I can’t stand it, and I don’t want you to leave. I’m a selfish bastard._

* * *

A few moments later, Makoto’s phone pings and she reads this.

_Good luck with everything, Makoto. I sincerely wish you all the best. _

* * *

On the day of her departure - promptly at two forty-five in the afternoon, with only half an hour left - Ren receives a photograph amongst his instant messages. Everybody else - sans him and Mona - are standing together, huddled tightly for a final group shot: Ann appears slightly teary-eyed; Ryuji throws his peace signs everywhere that he can, with Yusuke looking incredibly peeved (_'Ryuji, your poses ruin the very integrity and essence of this snapshot'_, Ren can hear him say); Futaba, Haru, and the gray-haired, aging Sae are squeezed in beside a smiling, happy Makoto. 

"They're missing someone, aren't they?" Sojiro comments, glancing at it for a brief moment before turning his back towards the counter. Ren remains inattentive to the older man's words, prompting Mona to scoff.

"And you're still sitting here like an idiot. I don't get it."

Ren loathes to admit it, but the stuck-up cat is completely right. Without his mask, he is everything _but_ brave, but he needs to take whatever precautions necessary to keep himself from doing anything that he'll regret. So he continues to sip his coffee, feigning ignorance all the while whilst secretly wishing that he could've been there with his luggage packed and ready-to-go.

* * *

But nothing - absolutely nothing - can ever prepare him for that horrific moment of sheer panic when an image of the very same train resurfaces on the tiny, pixelated screen of Leblanc's television as a fiery, charcoaled mess. The urgent news bulletin flashes before his eyes, blaring loudly from the stereo: Just thirty minutes after her train had departed from _Tokyo_ Station, the news of a track derailment forces the train to collide at a breakneck pace into a concrete wall. The impact of the collision, the news reporter announced grimly, caused multiple casualties and injuries, both minor and major. 

_Makoto Niijima (25)_

Ren doesn't want to believe it when he sees the words displayed in bright white font on the screen for a few prolonged moments, but when the text summary of all individuals listed in the incident resurfaces on the screen (Her name, it's there; _it's really there_), he pinches himself on the hand once. Amidst Sojiro's frantic, gruff yelling, urging him to get a move on and Mona, swiping at his arm with his paw, he does it again for the second time.

And then shakily, with his blood running frigidly cold throughout his veins, he manages to snap himself out of his daze. The realization of the severity of the situation finally settles in.

"Joker, I'm coming with you!" is the last thing that he hears, but it's already too late.

Ren has bolted out of the coffeehouse blindly, dashing through the side streets and onto the main road when a taxi nearly smashes into him. The driver is near ballistic, screaming all forms of cruel profanity at him, but it ceases when Ren climbs into the backseat and thrusts several bills in his direction. No matter how much money it takes, even if they need to take several sketchy detours, do illegal maneuvers - whatever it takes, it doesn't matter.

He just wants to see her. Her only.

* * *

_ Makoto Niijima (25)_

Fortunately, she does not end up as another fatality statistic. Perhaps it's just sheer dumb luck that she decided to change her seat the night before to one of the cars at the further back, or her parents - up in the heavens - sending her a message from the stars to do so because it wasn't ready to accept her yet. Regardless, she's just thankful enough to be _alive_ at this point. Everything else - the tiny scraps, the fracture in her stiffened shoulder that leaves her chest stinging and the smoke inhalation that had rendered her unconscious within fifteen seconds - was just secondary. Paled in comparison.

Still, it takes her some time to regain her consciousness. She's had her fair share of terrifying and heart-stopping moments before in the past in the cognitive world, but during those instances, there was always somebody to rely on, taking her by the hand when she felt bleak hopelessness. When things didn't go right and they experienced setbacks, when their mission became much too personal for her to handle - he was there through it all, putting his life on the line to make sure she lived to see another day.

But having to navigate her way through this groggy maze of darkness without anything firm to grasp onto to pull her out of the murky depths - it scares her. She has never felt smaller. 

And unmistakably, her lips begin to call out for his name. In her own consciousness, her own voice sounds incredibly jarring to the ear. Like an abandoned child calling out for her mother. She feels her neck twist, back and forth, left and right, searching and searching and searching through the endless space. 

"Makoto. Makoto. Don't worry. I'm here. Oh, God, please - just come to." 

No, hang on. There _is_ someone there. She hears the voice - a familiar one, close to the brink of tears. It forces her lips into a frown when she hears it, and she desperately wants to turn it around. And then, she _feels_ it. A calloused hand, gripping her own tightly, squeezing with a tenacity that she recognizes. He did that once, didn't he? When she took control of the steering wheel to bring the entire crew to the beachside. He secretly whispered three words to her that day, leaving her a flustered mess of emotions.

It was a joyous day that day, even if their brief excursion had lead to a tearful farewell on her end, and a promise of seeing each other again from his.

It should never be the opposite way around. She never wants to see him cry. _Ever_. 

Her eyelids finally flutter open at the powerful squeeze that he gives her hand, and it's there that she realizes (Groggily so): It's not the Shangri-La that she had envisioned in her mind, with a steady stream of oxygen being delivered through plastic tubing into her nose and an uncomfortable, scratchy blanket covering the lower half of her body. 

But having him - Ren Amamiya - seated beside her, his cheeks pink, his breaths shallow and his eyes bloodshot. The image itself is enough to break her heart and repair itself all at once. She doesn't question why or how or the what-ifs and the repercussions of their subsequent actions; all she knows is that she wants him close. 

So, she squeezes his hand in return. Weakly, but just enough.

"Ren. A-are you okay?"

* * *

Ren, likewise, has experienced enough trauma to last a lifetime. Considering that he's only twenty-four with at least sixty years remaining, he wanted to live out the rest in peace and tranquility. Not in bouts, leaving his heart an agitated mess every few months. And seeing her lying there, hooked up to machines, bandaged like a broken ragdoll, her hair a sweaty, matted mess - 

Ren truly felt as if his heart would fall out of his chest right then and there.

To say that he loathes himself is an understatement.

He loathes the fact that he left her broken. And to have broken her again over and over. He loathes the fact that he tried to play pretend like he were in grade school all over again when really, he's much too old to play childish games like that. He loathes the fact that it took a _near-death experience_ for him to finally open his eyes and realize that yes, Makoto Niijima was virtually irreplaceable.

And even now, he still loathes himself. _Especially_ now, when her fatigued gaze is searching his and he _still_ can't help but cower away. He's so damn pathetic, it hurts. And all that he can do to make up for it is a profuse apology over and over. And no matter how times she objects, he'll say it as many times as he has to in order to earn her forgiveness. "I'm sorry. Makoto, I'm - " His voice trembles, and it seems to turn into a weak whimper as his head lowers. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that I didn't try harder for you. For _us_. I'm so sorry that I gave up."

"Ren, I - "

"I know my apologies aren't worth anything, but - oh, God." He gives his head a good shake, and their entwined hands - they're _shaking_. "My heart stopped when I saw the news. I couldn't even react, and all I knew was that - I needed to see you. To make sure...to make sure that you were alright. That you were okay, and that - Makoto, I know what you're thinking. I'm a terrible human being, coming here to make amends when you're in such a sorry state and thinking that all of this bullshit that I'm saying now can ever fix the amount of pain that I caused you, but please, I - "

The expectant flash in her eyes forces him to grit his teeth together. _Fuck it._

What comes out next is a drained confession.

"I'm still not over you."

A little muted, a little quiet, but straight to the point. Makoto can't help but turn away from him, drawing in a sharp intake of breath. She thought she already shed enough tears on the train. 

"And all this time," he explains, his own voice beginning to waver. "All I've done is just run away and hide when my actions just proved that I have to eat my words. Trying to forget you; trying to pretend that certain things didn't faze me when it wholeheartedly did and - "

Ren can't muster up the willpower to continue. He expels his breaths in heavy puffs and sniffles, and Makoto doesn't bother telling him to finish, either. All that needs to be said has already been said, and whatever he doesn't say, he expresses it through his endearing touch. Standing up, he immediately envelops her in his arms - this time, they're free of plastic bags and groceries. It's just him, completely vulnerable with his heart presented to her out in the open. 

Makoto doesn't fight back. Not because of the fact that she's too weak - but because she loves him too, _too_ much to do so.

"Love me again, Makoto. I'll - I'll do better. Please. I'm just - "

And it is here, at this moment with Ren's heart thrumming unmistakably fast against her ear like a drum, that she nods without having to hear the rest. It's a little too gentle for him to recognize as a yes, so he perches himself on the side of her bed. And it is here, that she cups her hands around the sides of his face, wiping away the steady stream of silent tears that continue to flow down his handsome face, crystalline and lucent and so, so beautiful all at once.

"I called out your name," she confesses softly. "I - I was so scared that I wouldn't be able to see you again."

"But never again," he promises, gripping her hands tight as if she could fade away instantaneously. "I'll never leave you again."

"Yes." She closes her eyes, thinks briefly of the what-ifs and the should-haves and the tearful regrets that could've been avoided, but instantly lets it all go.

"Please, don't ever leave me again." 

She'll willingly let her heart dance with his once more and for as long as she lived.

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of it all, Ren and Makoto can't help it. Despite all that wasted time and running away, their love for one another inevitably brings them full circle :3 
> 
> But oh God, my own heart hurt when writing this. LMAO. NO ANGST FOR ULTIMATE OTPs T_T
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome!
> 
> P.S. I have no ill intentions in portraying Kasumi as Ren's other love interest, especially since we don't know how she'll turn out P5R, so my apologies in advance LOL.


End file.
